Of all the sports related beer commercials how is it you never see someone downing a cold frosty one after a marathon?
Though I may be partial to runners & running I'd love to see two guys, or gals, who have just fought to the finish in the Boston or New York Marathon and accept cheers from the congratulatory crowd from the podium with at least a PBR or pint of Guinness in their mits. Why? I believe Akron's Roadrunner Marathon is a trendsetter following my experience in last fall's event.
Akron Roadrunner Marathon: http://www.akronmarathon.org/
I have long since stopped running competitively and every once in a great while I enter a race for fun with friends. Last September I was recruited by coworkers to be a member of our five member marathon relay team. With no serious intentions it would be a fun & physical exercise for all involved. As long as I wasn't going to be the only one in agony I was fine with it. After accepting the invitation I took a look to see how much time I had before the marathon and discovered I had over a month before the starter's pistol was fired. Plenty of time to prepare. My portion of the the marathon, as the third leg, was 6.2 miles. "Piece of cake," I thought. Been there, done that - and thus my procrastination crawled out of hibernation.
Just like that the weeks leading up to the race dwindled. What did I do? Nothing...absolutely nothing. I kept putting it off and putting it off like it was April 15th approaching and I was going to owe Uncle Sam rather than get a refund. Instead of the tax man knocking on my door it was the ghost of the future showing images of my impending funeral as I collapse in agony along the streets of Akron. I had every intention of running, jogging slightly or walking REALLY fast...I just never got around to it.
Suddenly it was Friday - the day before and I figured I could, at the very least, muster enough energy to fulfill my obligation even without the athletic prowess to back me up. Nope, that didn't happen either. Working the 3 to 11 shift and as much as I tried to leave early - work kept falling in my lap. I didn't get out of the office till 1:30 Saturday morning. I could only pack in about 3 1/2 hours of sleep. A quick shower and some running gear later I was out the door.
Once at my relay station I mingle with other running wannabees & some with the deer-in-headlights look I'm all too familiar with. I admit I had a few butterflies, but I think it had more to do with the fact I had nothing for breakfast, very little sleep and had not run a lick (not even to the mailbox or to fridge for the last beer) in about a year. The weather was, at least, a little help - sunny, no clouds & 68 degrees.
Waiting for our team number to be called I watch runners go by as I stretch & warm up as much I as I can. Finally our digits come over the loudspeaker and I make my way over to the chute. Minutes later I see Tina, my teammate & coworker, and we make eye contact. She smiles, I believe, in relief that her portion of the journey is about to come to an end. She's not exactly an avid runner and had the shortest leg. I had to chuckle as she came up the hill shuffling her feet across the ground like they were somehow attached to it and carrying a cup of water taken from the last water station like it was a hot cup of coffee & afraid to spill it. And she's totally oblivious to the people who are running past her like she's standing still.
We exchange the baton and I begin. The butterflies have become adrenaline. Just to break the eerie silence I yell, "Last one there buys all the beer!!" A rumble of laughter come from the sidelines and I smile. My leg of the race winds through the University of Akron campus, past the historic downtown and along the Ohio & Erie Canal Towpath Trail. I'm doing pretty good and my body seems to be recollecting the running form. My day is decent until I see mile marker thirteen. That's when my brain reminds me I'm out of shape, malnourished and have no business acting out my running glory of yesteryear.
Ohio & Erie Canal Towpath Trail: http://www.ohioanderiecanalway.com/default.aspx
I may have looked okay to the casual observer, but inside my body was at war with itself. My legs and arms are now rubber, my lungs have shrunk to the size of peanuts and I have to two plus miles of this nightmare remaining. That voice of self doubt repeatedly begs me to stop and walk, but my stubbornness is the lone engine still running in my mind. Water stations offered little fuel, but it was enough to realize I wouldn't forgive myself if I took the easy way out.
Miles thirteen through fifteen took forever and I swear I aged ten years in that time. Once the course took us off the towpath trail and into Sand Run Metro Park I could see the end and slowly begin rejoicing with the knowledge that I was about to hand this albatross (race baton) onto another teammate. Out of nowhere, like a figure of Jesus miraculously appearing on the side of a silo at a rural midwestern farm, Carissa (my teammate) is waiting for me. As she grabs the baton I have "The Wicked Witch Is Dead" from The Wizard of Oz playing in my head.
When I come to a stop my leg muscles cramp ever so slightly, just enough to feel like someone is giving them a squeeze with every little step. After downing a gallon or two of water and various sports drinks I drag myself onto the bus that will take us to the finish line at Canal Park, the home of the Cleveland Indians Class AA affiliate the Akron Aeros. Though just a ten to fifteen minute bus ride I struggled to stay awake and didn't have enough strength to move my head which was plastered against the window. I could at least keep my mouth closed to avoid drooling on myself.
The Akron Aeros: www.akronaeros.com
In the stadium we're directed to the runners area which is complete with snacks, drinks and promotions of all kinds. I don't know about the other poor suckers, but I was starving. Sure...fruit, snacks, energy & protein bars are great but what I needed was a cheeseburger, a bratwurst slathered with mustard or a rib-eye steak. And I definitely had no interest in signing up for a subscription to Runner's World or purchasing a bulk supply of Power Bars.
Along with the free access to the hamster food & water we were given a bag of "gifts". These were more/less advertisements with free samples of hand cream & lip balm and coupons for sports related items I wouldn't consider even if I was an Olympic hopeful. Strangely - it also came with three small tickets. The kind used for 50/50 tickets at high school athletic events. Curious, I put on my best fake smile and ask a race volunteer what these represented. "They're for the beer," she says. Beer?! "Yes, these are your tickets for access to the beer tent." As she points to my left the tent seemed to glisten like the dew on a late summer's morn. I stare in awe.
Immediately I drop my bag of assorted squirrel treats & Avon freebies and zero in on the beer garden. Amazingly each ticket is worth a free Michelob Ultra. I can't say I'd ever purposely order one, but with no real food around this was the next best thing. Good, old fashioned "beer"....sort of. Within minutes I went from a near death experience to sitting in the stands along the third base line of Canal Park nursing three cold, frosty beers on a warm sunny September afternoon. My feet propped up on the seat in front of me & watching the remaining runners finished their 26.2 mile gauntlet. I sat their with a nice buzz (it comes quick on an empty stomach and no energy whatsoever) munching on fruit, pretzels, popcorn, granola & protein bars. I don't think I have ever had a better time at a ballpark.
About two hours later (the time it took for the buzz to wear off) I made my way to my car to head south to Canton (where I was living at the time), but not before swinging by Swensons for a pair of Galley Boys, onion rings, fries and the largest soda my car hop could find. Once at home I crawl into bed, still in race clothes, and sleep for four hours before heading further south to Salt Fork State Park to attend a birthday gathering with my then girlfriend and acquaintances.
Swensons: http://www.swensonsdriveins.com/
Will I take part in a another Akron Roadrunner Marathon? Well, if I'm asked, you bet your ass I would. After last Fall's race I thought Akron should do a better job of promoting their "free beer" segment of the race. "Imagine how many would sign up then!?", I thought. And waddaya know!! The June 2008 issue of Running Times, on page 71, is the Roadrunner Marathon ad which proudly boasts "Free Michelob Ultra at the finish line". Marketing at its best I tell you.
Running Times: http://runningtimes.com/
Hey, I may have found a new career!
An email sent to the team after the race:
Great job Team Radio Waves!! We finished the 26.2 miles in under 4 hours. Our official time was 3:58:18. We placed 242nd in the 5-person relay competition. Overall marathon, we placed 346th.
Individual Breakdown:Bib # 5371, Team Name: RADIO WAVES
Toni Cicone - 1:01:08 (10K - 6.2 miles)
Tina Kaufmann - 32:12 (5K - 3.1 miles)
Craig Simpson - 54:14 (10K - 6.2 miles)
Carissa Bowlin - 28:13 (5K - 3.1 miles)
George McFly - 1:02:33 (12.2K - 7.6 miles)
Looking forward to 2008!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Your Soul For A Beer
A former broadcasting guy now working to be happy and maybe successful as well. Find me on Instagram and twitter as: crsimp01.
Chase me on @Strava
@HoneyStinger Athlete
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Burnt Desire Or Simmering Possibility?
There comes a time in most careers when no matter how hard you try - its just not good enough and you are destined to fail. For me that was public radio.
In college, at our full fledged public radio station, I had some outstanding teachers. Chuck & Charlie knew the business, the technology, the industry and had connections. This was valuable to an upcoming graduate trying to get his or her foot in the door somewhere after getting their degree.
As my grad school days were winding down Chuck & Charlie kept me updated on openings and offered to put in a good word if needed. After graduation that's exactly how got the job as assistant news director at WKMS Public Radio at Murray State University. This venture lasted an entire five months.
WKMS Public Radio: http://www.wkms.org/
You would have thought I was absolutely ignorant. Outside of my immediate boss, Gary (who is still a good friend and radio colleague to this day), the rest of the staff told me in one way or another everyday that I couldn't write, had a poor on-air delivery, my story ideas were not adequate and that I needed to improve. Now I'm sure a few of these had some truth to them, but the more I tried to fit their mold the more I disappointed.
Thus, after starting in June of 2001, I was told in that November I was on the way out. At least I was given the notice that instead of a two week deadline they would work with me in finding employment elsewhere. That was cool, but I was already too frustrated and annoyed. I really didn't want their help.
What really ticked me off was the fact that the one idea they allowed me to really dig into was a piece documenting the Tennessee River Freshwater Mussel Relocation Program. And what was the result? I won a regional award for it!!! And in the category in which we submitted entries my project received an award of excellence and two other pieces put together by those who fired me received a lesser award of merit.
Council For Advancement And Support Of Education Awards: (FYI: Scroll down to Category 44) http://www.case.org/Content/Miscellaneous/Display.cfm?contentItemID=2153
Fed up with radio at this point (fired for the second time in two years) I just wanted out, as well as a change of scenery. As it was my high school friend, Kim, was living in Dallas, Texas and was interested in getting a roommate. Two weeks later was I cramming what belongings I could fit into my 1997 Ford Taurus and the rest went out to the street corner in front of my apartment where starving Murray State students could fight over it.
On the morning of December 1, 2001 I drove my light blue sedan from Murray, Kentucky to Dallas, Texas. If you aren't keeping track that's passing through Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas and Texas with visits to Memphis, Little Rock, Texarkana & every little burg and town in between.
Texarkana: http://www.txkusa.org/
In a new state, with new people & a new culture I was determined to put the wreck that was Murray behind me...FAR behind me. After few days of exploring Dallas I began filling out job applications and I believe I hit every restaurant in North Dallas (Addison). Trust me...that's a lot and if you've been there...you know exactly what I mean. I could have swore I gave myself carpal tunnel with as many applications I completed.
Addison, Texas: http://www.addisontexas.net/
What's Carpal Tunnel: http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/carpal_tunnel/detail_carpal_tunnel.htm
Finally a few days later I received a call back from The Macaroni Grill. Following some casual greetings and small talk this is how the stellar interview evolved:
Interviewer: "Have you ever worked in a restaurant?"
Me: "No"
Interviewer: "Have you ever worked in food service of any kind?"
Me: "No"
Interviewer: "Have you ever been employed as a server, bus boy, dishwasher, host or in a kitchen of some type?"
Me: "No"
Interviewer: "How did you come to apply for a position here?"
Since I couldn't say it was because I had no job, no money, slept on the floor of my apartment because I had no furniture and was recently fired...I had to be as creative as I could. So I said, "I have come to enjoy the food at your establishment and believe I would enjoy assisting others enjoying it as much as I have." I was promptly thanked for coming in and sent on my merry way.
Discouraged to realize getting a job in any restaurant was as distant as working in public radio at this time - I still had to deliver another completed application. About ten minutes later I walked into a three-ring circus that went by the name of "Pastazios".
Pastazios (pronounced: Puh-stah-zee-ohs) is a New York-style pizzeria run by Brooklyn native Danni Deari. His list of employees included Joey (a real live born & bred N.Y. pizza man), Rufki, Bahdi, Jose, Flavio, a Hispanic kitchen prep crew that spoke little to no English and manager Abdiraman Jakupi.....we called him "Ray"...for obvious reasons.
Wanting to make a good impression I asked to see the manager in order to hand him the application myself. Directed to a tall, skinny, pale man sucking down cigarettes like a meth addict being forced into detox I stride on over faking as much confidence as I could. Ray, from the former Yugoslavia, spoke halfway decent English but unless you had been around him and were used to his thick accent he was hard to understand at times.
My favorite pizza place.
Pastazios http://www.pastazios.com/
To my surprise the moment he took my application, my interview began and sounded eerily similar to the one I had just failed ten minutes before. He would ask me questions only to hear me reply, "No" over and over again. When he got to asking me why I wanted to work there my defenses broke down and the truth came out. "Look", I said, "I just moved here on a whim after losing my job and I need an income. I've been searching for a job with no luck. I'm not here to waste your time, but I'm ready to learn and work."
I must of hit a cord.
After asking me if I had a car and if I wouldn't mind delivering, both of which I was way to excited to say "Yes" to, Ray told me to come back in three hours.
Uh...what?
"Yes, come back in three hours you can work now (a Friday) through the weekend," he said. In a matter of five minutes I handed in an application, had an interview to which I made it perfectly clear that I know jack about restaurants and/or the food service industry and was hired to work starting THAT DAY!
Excitedly confused, and unsure of what I had just gotten myself into, I was at least happy to know someone was interested in employing me.
My uniform was a black t-shirt that had our logo on the front and a tongue-in-cheek New York-ish comment on the back. I was given my allotment of three each with a different saying which included: "I've got your four stars right here!" (Pastazios had received a four star rating from the Dallas Morning News) and "Grab a slice and shut your pie hole!". Family friendly sayings they were.
Dallas Morning News: http://www.dallasnews.com/
From 5pm till midnight I was schooled in the art that is the food industry. It was fast-paced, you had to learn on the fly (sometimes the hard way), decipher how to communicate with those who did not speak the language and figure out for yourself where to find whatever it was you needed without assistance....and I LOVED IT!! I did everything from deliver, to food prep, bus tables, take orders, to some minor cooking.
Once the night was over Ray was apparently satisfied that his gamble had paid off and asked me to comeback the next day work open to close, 10am to 11pm. I agreed and was able to relax a little now that I had some income. For each of the next four days, at closing, I was told to come back the next day and, again, work open to close. Curious to know if I was still just part-time after working nearly a full week I asked Ray through a half-cracked smile, "So, I'm part-time?" Through the cloud of his smoke break Ray laughed, "I"m just kidding your full time."
For the next nine months I was part of the ever sacred fraternity that was the restaurant business. I could navigate through Dallas like I had been born there, could help manage the place when the boss was gone (Joey and Rufki were great teachers) and we made the atmosphere in that place so off the cuff and in your face that customers came in just to watch & listen. That's despite the fact the food was phenomenal, especially the pizza. Joey was magic with a pizza pie.
We worked six days a week (open to close), basically living at the restaurant and eating like kings. Since we were there all day and had to eat sometime we were given full access to the food. When business would slow down we treated ourselves to whatever Joey made up or to some sort of concoction our "Spanglish" speaking prep crew threw together. I never had a bad meal - those guys made sure of it, I was one of them...I was a member of their fraternity.
There were some crazy times & great practical jokes at the expense of one another. Joey enjoyed taking his loose change from his pocket and placing it on the ridiculously hot oven stones. After removing it with a spatula and scattering it on counter he'd tell one of the unsuspecting busboys it was theirs if they wanted it.They had imprints of quarters, dimes and nickles on their hands for days on end.
We had this one kid who would challenge you to anything. Knowing he hated seafood with a passion we chose to rig a cannoli eating contest. His flaky shell, mascarpone cheese and chocolate chip dessert was riddle with bits & pieces of the kitchen crew's day old fish stew. It took maybe three seconds for him to scarf it down and have it come back up in one lump sum. Big joey was on the floor laughing through tears, his contest cannoli still intact, as the rest of us were being chased out of the store by a pissed off delivery man.
What's a cannoli?: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannoli
Speaking of delivery. We took plenty of them outside of our immediate area with most of those being large corporate lunch orders. We fought over these to see who would get the big tip that was usually associated with them. Though some of those companies turned out to be pretty damn cheap. If it was a typical delivery in the neighborhood (a radius of three to four blocks) our method of delivery was on a Schwinn bicycle pulling what would amount to a two-wheeled a cart a parent would use for their child. The cart contained the order and we pedaled the orders around the neighborhood. I quickly learned, being 26 and single at the time, that wasn't the greatest impression when crossing paths with the ladies. Riding on the back of Schwinn or in a pizza cart to the nightclub wasn't too exciting. (Though in a big, powder blue sedan with one side view mirror wasn't much better)
My time came to an end when I met a girl at a wedding back in Ohio early that Spring and moved a few months later to the Buckeye State taking another radio job. This time I was going to try my hand at commercial radio in the city of Newark. I was glad to be getting a job with fewer hours and an actual weekend. My brother flew down to Dallas (from Columbus) to help me move. That calamity entailed driving 26 1/2 hours straight from Dallas to Ohio's capitol city. Yeah, we're idiots I know.
Newark, Ohio: http://www.ci.newark.oh.us/
I left Texas, Pastazios and all that Big "D" had to offer and wouldn't you freakin' know it; that girl I met and moved back to Ohio for - yeah that relationship didn't last a year. Well partly due to my own undoing, I am a guy you know. We do, and don't do, some stupid things sometimes. But, hey, commercial radio loved me and so did Newark. It was nice to know I could do radio professionally. I just could not be forced to purposely sound dull & boring. Eat that NPR!
Though I couldn't help but realize I had been bitten by the food & restaurant bug. I knew it was always there - my mom could see when I was growing up. But it was brought to life by Pastazios, Joey and Dallas. I think about it constantly and ponder whether this is something I need to do. That would mean giving up 13 years, two degrees and my fight from broadcasting outcast to radio respectability. I don't know...but I feel its an itch that needs to be scratched in one way or another.
Dallas was six years ago. I've found that Danny now has as least three Pastazios locations. Joey left to open his own place in Arlington near the baseball stadium called The New Yorker and took Rufki & Bahdi with him. Unfortunately I haven't heard anything from those guys or their restaurant in two or three years. I was told Abdiraman, or "Ray", left to open an ice cream place, but his venture lasted only a few months.
Joey & The New Yorker: http://www.guidelive.com/portal/page?_pageid=33,97400&_dad=portal&_schema=PORTAL&item_id=14030#
Despite discovering a review of Joey's restaurant from 2003 with a picture of him and his goofy-ass grin while surfing the web one night, I could not tell you what those guys are up to today. I'm sure they recruited many a new fraternity members and have planted the seed in a number of unsuspecting wanderers & recently unemployed drifters. Whether or not that seed is germinating, I don't know.
For me - that seed might as well be a vineyard. It just needs to know if someone will be tending to it or plow it under and see what the next season will bring. Sour grapes or not, I'm ready to cultivate.
Thanks Joey.
In college, at our full fledged public radio station, I had some outstanding teachers. Chuck & Charlie knew the business, the technology, the industry and had connections. This was valuable to an upcoming graduate trying to get his or her foot in the door somewhere after getting their degree.
As my grad school days were winding down Chuck & Charlie kept me updated on openings and offered to put in a good word if needed. After graduation that's exactly how got the job as assistant news director at WKMS Public Radio at Murray State University. This venture lasted an entire five months.
WKMS Public Radio: http://www.wkms.org/
You would have thought I was absolutely ignorant. Outside of my immediate boss, Gary (who is still a good friend and radio colleague to this day), the rest of the staff told me in one way or another everyday that I couldn't write, had a poor on-air delivery, my story ideas were not adequate and that I needed to improve. Now I'm sure a few of these had some truth to them, but the more I tried to fit their mold the more I disappointed.
Thus, after starting in June of 2001, I was told in that November I was on the way out. At least I was given the notice that instead of a two week deadline they would work with me in finding employment elsewhere. That was cool, but I was already too frustrated and annoyed. I really didn't want their help.
What really ticked me off was the fact that the one idea they allowed me to really dig into was a piece documenting the Tennessee River Freshwater Mussel Relocation Program. And what was the result? I won a regional award for it!!! And in the category in which we submitted entries my project received an award of excellence and two other pieces put together by those who fired me received a lesser award of merit.
Council For Advancement And Support Of Education Awards: (FYI: Scroll down to Category 44) http://www.case.org/Content/Miscellaneous/Display.cfm?contentItemID=2153
Fed up with radio at this point (fired for the second time in two years) I just wanted out, as well as a change of scenery. As it was my high school friend, Kim, was living in Dallas, Texas and was interested in getting a roommate. Two weeks later was I cramming what belongings I could fit into my 1997 Ford Taurus and the rest went out to the street corner in front of my apartment where starving Murray State students could fight over it.
On the morning of December 1, 2001 I drove my light blue sedan from Murray, Kentucky to Dallas, Texas. If you aren't keeping track that's passing through Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas and Texas with visits to Memphis, Little Rock, Texarkana & every little burg and town in between.
Texarkana: http://www.txkusa.org/
In a new state, with new people & a new culture I was determined to put the wreck that was Murray behind me...FAR behind me. After few days of exploring Dallas I began filling out job applications and I believe I hit every restaurant in North Dallas (Addison). Trust me...that's a lot and if you've been there...you know exactly what I mean. I could have swore I gave myself carpal tunnel with as many applications I completed.
Addison, Texas: http://www.addisontexas.net/
What's Carpal Tunnel: http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/carpal_tunnel/detail_carpal_tunnel.htm
Finally a few days later I received a call back from The Macaroni Grill. Following some casual greetings and small talk this is how the stellar interview evolved:
Interviewer: "Have you ever worked in a restaurant?"
Me: "No"
Interviewer: "Have you ever worked in food service of any kind?"
Me: "No"
Interviewer: "Have you ever been employed as a server, bus boy, dishwasher, host or in a kitchen of some type?"
Me: "No"
Interviewer: "How did you come to apply for a position here?"
Since I couldn't say it was because I had no job, no money, slept on the floor of my apartment because I had no furniture and was recently fired...I had to be as creative as I could. So I said, "I have come to enjoy the food at your establishment and believe I would enjoy assisting others enjoying it as much as I have." I was promptly thanked for coming in and sent on my merry way.
Discouraged to realize getting a job in any restaurant was as distant as working in public radio at this time - I still had to deliver another completed application. About ten minutes later I walked into a three-ring circus that went by the name of "Pastazios".
Pastazios (pronounced: Puh-stah-zee-ohs) is a New York-style pizzeria run by Brooklyn native Danni Deari. His list of employees included Joey (a real live born & bred N.Y. pizza man), Rufki, Bahdi, Jose, Flavio, a Hispanic kitchen prep crew that spoke little to no English and manager Abdiraman Jakupi.....we called him "Ray"...for obvious reasons.
Wanting to make a good impression I asked to see the manager in order to hand him the application myself. Directed to a tall, skinny, pale man sucking down cigarettes like a meth addict being forced into detox I stride on over faking as much confidence as I could. Ray, from the former Yugoslavia, spoke halfway decent English but unless you had been around him and were used to his thick accent he was hard to understand at times.
My favorite pizza place.
Pastazios http://www.pastazios.com/
To my surprise the moment he took my application, my interview began and sounded eerily similar to the one I had just failed ten minutes before. He would ask me questions only to hear me reply, "No" over and over again. When he got to asking me why I wanted to work there my defenses broke down and the truth came out. "Look", I said, "I just moved here on a whim after losing my job and I need an income. I've been searching for a job with no luck. I'm not here to waste your time, but I'm ready to learn and work."
I must of hit a cord.
After asking me if I had a car and if I wouldn't mind delivering, both of which I was way to excited to say "Yes" to, Ray told me to come back in three hours.
Uh...what?
"Yes, come back in three hours you can work now (a Friday) through the weekend," he said. In a matter of five minutes I handed in an application, had an interview to which I made it perfectly clear that I know jack about restaurants and/or the food service industry and was hired to work starting THAT DAY!
Excitedly confused, and unsure of what I had just gotten myself into, I was at least happy to know someone was interested in employing me.
My uniform was a black t-shirt that had our logo on the front and a tongue-in-cheek New York-ish comment on the back. I was given my allotment of three each with a different saying which included: "I've got your four stars right here!" (Pastazios had received a four star rating from the Dallas Morning News) and "Grab a slice and shut your pie hole!". Family friendly sayings they were.
Dallas Morning News: http://www.dallasnews.com/
From 5pm till midnight I was schooled in the art that is the food industry. It was fast-paced, you had to learn on the fly (sometimes the hard way), decipher how to communicate with those who did not speak the language and figure out for yourself where to find whatever it was you needed without assistance....and I LOVED IT!! I did everything from deliver, to food prep, bus tables, take orders, to some minor cooking.
Once the night was over Ray was apparently satisfied that his gamble had paid off and asked me to comeback the next day work open to close, 10am to 11pm. I agreed and was able to relax a little now that I had some income. For each of the next four days, at closing, I was told to come back the next day and, again, work open to close. Curious to know if I was still just part-time after working nearly a full week I asked Ray through a half-cracked smile, "So, I'm part-time?" Through the cloud of his smoke break Ray laughed, "I"m just kidding your full time."
For the next nine months I was part of the ever sacred fraternity that was the restaurant business. I could navigate through Dallas like I had been born there, could help manage the place when the boss was gone (Joey and Rufki were great teachers) and we made the atmosphere in that place so off the cuff and in your face that customers came in just to watch & listen. That's despite the fact the food was phenomenal, especially the pizza. Joey was magic with a pizza pie.
We worked six days a week (open to close), basically living at the restaurant and eating like kings. Since we were there all day and had to eat sometime we were given full access to the food. When business would slow down we treated ourselves to whatever Joey made up or to some sort of concoction our "Spanglish" speaking prep crew threw together. I never had a bad meal - those guys made sure of it, I was one of them...I was a member of their fraternity.
There were some crazy times & great practical jokes at the expense of one another. Joey enjoyed taking his loose change from his pocket and placing it on the ridiculously hot oven stones. After removing it with a spatula and scattering it on counter he'd tell one of the unsuspecting busboys it was theirs if they wanted it.They had imprints of quarters, dimes and nickles on their hands for days on end.
We had this one kid who would challenge you to anything. Knowing he hated seafood with a passion we chose to rig a cannoli eating contest. His flaky shell, mascarpone cheese and chocolate chip dessert was riddle with bits & pieces of the kitchen crew's day old fish stew. It took maybe three seconds for him to scarf it down and have it come back up in one lump sum. Big joey was on the floor laughing through tears, his contest cannoli still intact, as the rest of us were being chased out of the store by a pissed off delivery man.
What's a cannoli?: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannoli
Speaking of delivery. We took plenty of them outside of our immediate area with most of those being large corporate lunch orders. We fought over these to see who would get the big tip that was usually associated with them. Though some of those companies turned out to be pretty damn cheap. If it was a typical delivery in the neighborhood (a radius of three to four blocks) our method of delivery was on a Schwinn bicycle pulling what would amount to a two-wheeled a cart a parent would use for their child. The cart contained the order and we pedaled the orders around the neighborhood. I quickly learned, being 26 and single at the time, that wasn't the greatest impression when crossing paths with the ladies. Riding on the back of Schwinn or in a pizza cart to the nightclub wasn't too exciting. (Though in a big, powder blue sedan with one side view mirror wasn't much better)
My time came to an end when I met a girl at a wedding back in Ohio early that Spring and moved a few months later to the Buckeye State taking another radio job. This time I was going to try my hand at commercial radio in the city of Newark. I was glad to be getting a job with fewer hours and an actual weekend. My brother flew down to Dallas (from Columbus) to help me move. That calamity entailed driving 26 1/2 hours straight from Dallas to Ohio's capitol city. Yeah, we're idiots I know.
Newark, Ohio: http://www.ci.newark.oh.us/
I left Texas, Pastazios and all that Big "D" had to offer and wouldn't you freakin' know it; that girl I met and moved back to Ohio for - yeah that relationship didn't last a year. Well partly due to my own undoing, I am a guy you know. We do, and don't do, some stupid things sometimes. But, hey, commercial radio loved me and so did Newark. It was nice to know I could do radio professionally. I just could not be forced to purposely sound dull & boring. Eat that NPR!
Though I couldn't help but realize I had been bitten by the food & restaurant bug. I knew it was always there - my mom could see when I was growing up. But it was brought to life by Pastazios, Joey and Dallas. I think about it constantly and ponder whether this is something I need to do. That would mean giving up 13 years, two degrees and my fight from broadcasting outcast to radio respectability. I don't know...but I feel its an itch that needs to be scratched in one way or another.
Dallas was six years ago. I've found that Danny now has as least three Pastazios locations. Joey left to open his own place in Arlington near the baseball stadium called The New Yorker and took Rufki & Bahdi with him. Unfortunately I haven't heard anything from those guys or their restaurant in two or three years. I was told Abdiraman, or "Ray", left to open an ice cream place, but his venture lasted only a few months.
Joey & The New Yorker: http://www.guidelive.com/portal/page?_pageid=33,97400&_dad=portal&_schema=PORTAL&item_id=14030#
Despite discovering a review of Joey's restaurant from 2003 with a picture of him and his goofy-ass grin while surfing the web one night, I could not tell you what those guys are up to today. I'm sure they recruited many a new fraternity members and have planted the seed in a number of unsuspecting wanderers & recently unemployed drifters. Whether or not that seed is germinating, I don't know.
For me - that seed might as well be a vineyard. It just needs to know if someone will be tending to it or plow it under and see what the next season will bring. Sour grapes or not, I'm ready to cultivate.
Thanks Joey.
A former broadcasting guy now working to be happy and maybe successful as well. Find me on Instagram and twitter as: crsimp01.
Chase me on @Strava
@HoneyStinger Athlete
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
We're All Adults here, Can We Act Like it?
I would never encourage anyone to dial 911 as a prank, but I'm hoping that would be my reason for doing so if I ever have to do it again.
911: http://www.the911site.com/
For years the only real car accidents I had ever been witness to were minor fender benders (some of which I caused) and the only big emergencies I had been apart of were having to use the restroom at the most inopportune time. My bladder was the bane of my parent's existence when I was a child. But following recent events I have concluded that the next time a nine and a pair of ones cross my mind they better be on winning lottery ticket or my poor attempt at counting following a heavy night of drinking.
Since I don't work until mid-afternoon I tend to stay up late into Sunday night and into Monday morning. Channel surfing around 2am this past Monday I'm in the middle of a "South Park" marathon. "South Park" hit the airwaves my senior year of college and reruns are a nice trip down memory lane for me. Enthralled with the "Brown Note" episode (hilarious) I hear what sounds like a firecracker coming from outside my apartment. Minutes later I hear it again. Right away I can tell that's no firecracker - its a gunshot.
I grew up in southern Ohio's hill country and in a family of hunters - I know what a gun being fired sounds like. But living in a residential neighborhood on the outskirts of Akron, near Coventry Township, this was no place to be hearing gunshots.
Coventry Township: http://www.coventrytownship.com/
I immediately run to the door and open it slightly to investigate. Across the street from my ground floor apartment in a diagonal direction I see the an individual yelling at someone, or something, and at the end of his outstretched arm I see flashes of light which are followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Disturbing is the fact the man is standing in a parking lot firing toward an apartment complex. In disbelief I turn off the lights in my apartment and crouch down in order to avoid being notice.
The person fires four more shots, hops into his car and pulls out of the parking lot and heads in my direction. Did he see me? I close the door and lie flat on the floor - figuring he'd have to be one hell of a shot to hit me from a moving car. His late model Buick or Lincoln passes by and I jump back to the door and watch him pull into a driveway a half a block away. I hear what sounds like a car door and something being tossed into the street. He backs out and heads back toward me - no shots fired. Some relief, but not much. I still don't know if someone has been shot and I don't want this dude to get away before I can get a more detailed description.
I thrown on my shoes, grab my phone and following the car from a distance. The car comes to the end of the street, turns and disappears. Once its gone I hurry to where the gunshots were fired hoping I don't find anyone riddle with bullet wounds. Casually searching in the dark I even yell out, "Anyone hurt? Anyone need help?" My chest was pounding and probably would have exploded had anyone answered me.
I pull out my phone and dial those three digits. With my wits about me I tell the dispatcher what took place. No more than two minutes later one of Akron's finest arrives. I explain what happened and he, too, begins searching the area. Before you know it ten to fifteen officers are on hand. I stand off in the distance and out of the way until relaying my contact info and head home.
As I turn around I notice at least twenty people gawking from their apartment balconies. The cops had arrived with their cruiser lights on, but no sirens. I heard the gunshots over my blaring television. Were these people awake at the time? They had to be, there was no other noise outside of the gunfire. Yet no one, other than I, called the police. No one, other than I, tried to keep an eye on this punk wildly firing his "steel courage" at a defenseless apartment building. No one, other than I, investigated to see if some was dead or dying. They sat idly by figuring someone else would go the extra mile despite being scared to death. What were they waiting for? Who were they afraid of? Was calling the police, from the comfort of their home, too much for them? They live directly across the street from the scene and much closer than I do & they did nothing?!
The police stayed out there another 90 minutes or so and I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep. Not because I was scared, but because I could not give more detailed information on the shooter or his car. There were those who could have, yet they chose not to.
Similarly last spring, at about this same time, I also had to dial the emergency phone code. I was on I-77 North, just north of Akron-Canton Airport, on a very windy day. A truck pulling a load was ahead of us in a lane next to me when a gust of wind blew pieces of his load into the air and onto the roadway. Those of us immediately trailing him were able to come to a halt and avoid the debris. Unfortunately an SUV in the lane next to me did not see what took place and slammed on his brakes and swerved to the left. As the truck began tilt he over corrected and sent the truck into an immediate barrel roll. The driver was thrown out his window like a piece of trash. it was surreal.
In disbelief I pulled off the highway, grabbed my phone and got out. I have never been in an emergency situation of this sorts, nor did I have any emergency training but I felt compelled to help. Of those idling cars and stunned faces three of us jump into assist mode. Two people run to the aid of the poor individual whose truck spat him out like a rag doll. I'm dialing those three digits and start directing traffic as I'm giving detail on the who, what, why, when and where to the authorities.
Seconds later, it seems, the highway patrol arrives along with medical personnel. I continue directing traffic until the troopers have enough on scene help. Freaked out, I sit in a cruiser writing my witness statement with my hand shaking like a leaf. Once finished I get in my car and head to work. Later that night I wondered - why did only three of us offer help or come to that driver's aid? I'm sure others were scared, I know I was...but those who watched it unfold sat there until traffic started flowing again. Um...your welcome...I guess ?!
I'm not saying everyone else is a coward or suggesting everybody is out for themselves, but that really scared the crap out of me. What if I had been shot by an armed assailant? What if I had been thrown from an out of control car? Who then would help me? Who would stand up to their fears and help me out despite having never met me?
Now I understand not everyone will be subjected to such things in their life time and can escape blame for emergency inactivity. But let me tell ya - I too thought I would never be in that predicament or be forced to make the decision to help in an emergency. And in the last 356 days I've experienced it twice. Why did I help? For one - I felt it was my duty. Secondly, I wholeheartedly believe someone would grow a pair and help me in my time of need.
Its about getting involved and has nothing to do with being a hero or getting your name in the paper and your mug on television. Life is a test and if you want to watch from the security of your apartment, your car or your home...go right ahead. But remember what goes around, comes around.
Just so you know the driver of that SUV was in the hospital for a few days and,luckily, had no life threatening injuries. Just bumps, bruises, broken bones and a concussion. Also, police found no one with gunshot wounds from Monday's shooting and are in the midst of tracking down that punk. Though I can't wait to see how much courage he has when he doesn't have a loaded gun in his hand. Cowards tend to find the quick resolution.
Mulligans: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mulligan
With this past weekend's The Masters golf tournament still fresh in my mind I feel the following is quite appropriate. In life there's only one round and its loaded with bunkers & water hazards. There are no mulligans - get used to it.
911: http://www.the911site.com/
For years the only real car accidents I had ever been witness to were minor fender benders (some of which I caused) and the only big emergencies I had been apart of were having to use the restroom at the most inopportune time. My bladder was the bane of my parent's existence when I was a child. But following recent events I have concluded that the next time a nine and a pair of ones cross my mind they better be on winning lottery ticket or my poor attempt at counting following a heavy night of drinking.
Since I don't work until mid-afternoon I tend to stay up late into Sunday night and into Monday morning. Channel surfing around 2am this past Monday I'm in the middle of a "South Park" marathon. "South Park" hit the airwaves my senior year of college and reruns are a nice trip down memory lane for me. Enthralled with the "Brown Note" episode (hilarious) I hear what sounds like a firecracker coming from outside my apartment. Minutes later I hear it again. Right away I can tell that's no firecracker - its a gunshot.
I grew up in southern Ohio's hill country and in a family of hunters - I know what a gun being fired sounds like. But living in a residential neighborhood on the outskirts of Akron, near Coventry Township, this was no place to be hearing gunshots.
Coventry Township: http://www.coventrytownship.com/
I immediately run to the door and open it slightly to investigate. Across the street from my ground floor apartment in a diagonal direction I see the an individual yelling at someone, or something, and at the end of his outstretched arm I see flashes of light which are followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Disturbing is the fact the man is standing in a parking lot firing toward an apartment complex. In disbelief I turn off the lights in my apartment and crouch down in order to avoid being notice.
The person fires four more shots, hops into his car and pulls out of the parking lot and heads in my direction. Did he see me? I close the door and lie flat on the floor - figuring he'd have to be one hell of a shot to hit me from a moving car. His late model Buick or Lincoln passes by and I jump back to the door and watch him pull into a driveway a half a block away. I hear what sounds like a car door and something being tossed into the street. He backs out and heads back toward me - no shots fired. Some relief, but not much. I still don't know if someone has been shot and I don't want this dude to get away before I can get a more detailed description.
I thrown on my shoes, grab my phone and following the car from a distance. The car comes to the end of the street, turns and disappears. Once its gone I hurry to where the gunshots were fired hoping I don't find anyone riddle with bullet wounds. Casually searching in the dark I even yell out, "Anyone hurt? Anyone need help?" My chest was pounding and probably would have exploded had anyone answered me.
I pull out my phone and dial those three digits. With my wits about me I tell the dispatcher what took place. No more than two minutes later one of Akron's finest arrives. I explain what happened and he, too, begins searching the area. Before you know it ten to fifteen officers are on hand. I stand off in the distance and out of the way until relaying my contact info and head home.
As I turn around I notice at least twenty people gawking from their apartment balconies. The cops had arrived with their cruiser lights on, but no sirens. I heard the gunshots over my blaring television. Were these people awake at the time? They had to be, there was no other noise outside of the gunfire. Yet no one, other than I, called the police. No one, other than I, tried to keep an eye on this punk wildly firing his "steel courage" at a defenseless apartment building. No one, other than I, investigated to see if some was dead or dying. They sat idly by figuring someone else would go the extra mile despite being scared to death. What were they waiting for? Who were they afraid of? Was calling the police, from the comfort of their home, too much for them? They live directly across the street from the scene and much closer than I do & they did nothing?!
The police stayed out there another 90 minutes or so and I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep. Not because I was scared, but because I could not give more detailed information on the shooter or his car. There were those who could have, yet they chose not to.
Similarly last spring, at about this same time, I also had to dial the emergency phone code. I was on I-77 North, just north of Akron-Canton Airport, on a very windy day. A truck pulling a load was ahead of us in a lane next to me when a gust of wind blew pieces of his load into the air and onto the roadway. Those of us immediately trailing him were able to come to a halt and avoid the debris. Unfortunately an SUV in the lane next to me did not see what took place and slammed on his brakes and swerved to the left. As the truck began tilt he over corrected and sent the truck into an immediate barrel roll. The driver was thrown out his window like a piece of trash. it was surreal.
In disbelief I pulled off the highway, grabbed my phone and got out. I have never been in an emergency situation of this sorts, nor did I have any emergency training but I felt compelled to help. Of those idling cars and stunned faces three of us jump into assist mode. Two people run to the aid of the poor individual whose truck spat him out like a rag doll. I'm dialing those three digits and start directing traffic as I'm giving detail on the who, what, why, when and where to the authorities.
Seconds later, it seems, the highway patrol arrives along with medical personnel. I continue directing traffic until the troopers have enough on scene help. Freaked out, I sit in a cruiser writing my witness statement with my hand shaking like a leaf. Once finished I get in my car and head to work. Later that night I wondered - why did only three of us offer help or come to that driver's aid? I'm sure others were scared, I know I was...but those who watched it unfold sat there until traffic started flowing again. Um...your welcome...I guess ?!
I'm not saying everyone else is a coward or suggesting everybody is out for themselves, but that really scared the crap out of me. What if I had been shot by an armed assailant? What if I had been thrown from an out of control car? Who then would help me? Who would stand up to their fears and help me out despite having never met me?
Now I understand not everyone will be subjected to such things in their life time and can escape blame for emergency inactivity. But let me tell ya - I too thought I would never be in that predicament or be forced to make the decision to help in an emergency. And in the last 356 days I've experienced it twice. Why did I help? For one - I felt it was my duty. Secondly, I wholeheartedly believe someone would grow a pair and help me in my time of need.
Its about getting involved and has nothing to do with being a hero or getting your name in the paper and your mug on television. Life is a test and if you want to watch from the security of your apartment, your car or your home...go right ahead. But remember what goes around, comes around.
Just so you know the driver of that SUV was in the hospital for a few days and,luckily, had no life threatening injuries. Just bumps, bruises, broken bones and a concussion. Also, police found no one with gunshot wounds from Monday's shooting and are in the midst of tracking down that punk. Though I can't wait to see how much courage he has when he doesn't have a loaded gun in his hand. Cowards tend to find the quick resolution.
Mulligans: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mulligan
With this past weekend's The Masters golf tournament still fresh in my mind I feel the following is quite appropriate. In life there's only one round and its loaded with bunkers & water hazards. There are no mulligans - get used to it.
A former broadcasting guy now working to be happy and maybe successful as well. Find me on Instagram and twitter as: crsimp01.
Chase me on @Strava
@HoneyStinger Athlete
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Election Night Demons Strike Again
We are far removed from the March 4th Primary Election and trust me...I'm relieved. I am not a fan of elections and/or politics. I'm involved with them due to my job. I do a more than adequate job and work hard when these issues are assigned to me, but if it is not a requirement you can bet I'll pass on the opportunity.
There are reasons politics and I don't mix, some of them are hard to explain. Others are pretty obvious.
Below is one my more personal issues with the political devil. This is story was originally written and posted on http://www.akronnewsnow.com/ back on March 6th. I figured with it being a month later I could repeat it with having severe flashbacks.
Keep your fingers crossed and enjoy, ;)
Election Night Demons Strike Again
3/6/2008 6:08:52 AM By: Craig Simpson
Voters and politicians are either happy or disappointed with Tuesday's outcome, but for some of us it was a reason to run and hide.
You either enjoy election day or despise it as a member of the media. As for myself I'm in between, but I'm seriously leaning toward the latter. At WAKR and AkronNewsNow.com we manned several locations Tuesday with the Democratic watching party being my post.
With the focus on Akron and Northeast Ohio the last few months you could expect to run into some media brethren of local, regional and national levels at every location. At the Democratic party, taking place at Bricco (great pizza) in downtown, I passed reporters from WKYC TV, WKSU Public Radio and National Public Radio (NPR).
Bricco: http://www.briccoakron.com/
Being a former NPR anchor/reporter myself at affiliates in Indiana and Kentucky, I thought it was pretty cool to run into a personality you would hear everyday if you are an avid listener. As it was, Linda Wertheimer was covering the same beat Tuesday.
Linda Wertheimer: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1931801
Upon my arrival at Bricco the manager passed on some information I thought was halfway amusing. Apparently, Wertheimer and her assistant were having trouble getting a satellite signal back to Washington in order conduct some live reporting or something of that nature. It isn't good to poke fun at someone's misfortune, but I have had this very same problem happen to me more than once. Finally, someone else was snake bitten.
National Public Radio: www.npr.org
As a result Wertheimer was unable to do anything live at that point and just had to gather bulk interviews for production of stories later on. I had to giggle that this worldwide news organization could not get a signal due to Northeast Ohio's brutal winter weather (among other things).
Being a fan of NPR and not wanting to miss the opportunity I found my way over to Mrs. Wertheimer and conducted an interview with her on how the national media is focusing its attention on Akron. She was as courteous and gracious as her personality over the airwaves seems to indicate. It was also hard to hide my enthusiasm for interviewing a colleague of that magnitude in our industry.
Later on, back at the studios of Rubber City Radio Group in the early morning hours Wednesday I'm in the process of producing stories and cutting up audio for Larry States & the rest of our morning crew. That's when my election night demons couldn't hold their laughter.
Our digital recorders, sometimes, have this unexplainable glitch in which (at various times) will record over a track instead of jumping to a new track once the record button is engaged. As a result the one interview I could brag about to my media friends, my fellow NPR geeks and jealous family members...had been recorded over. It disappeared into the same thin air that kept the all powerful National Public Radio from conducting live election night coverage from downtown Akron.
Wertheimer, unknown to her, had the last laugh. I could hear NPR slyly telling me, "You had it coming commercial radio reporter man!" Was it pay back for leaving? Did I not realize what the consequences were for leaving the ranks of publicly funded, listener supported radio?
I could just see loyal public radio-ists enjoying the drinking from their NPR supporting listener gift coffee mug more than they ever had before. Their children proudly wearing their Morning Edition t-shirts to school the next day like they were made of gold and their would-be bully antagonizers taking notice, leaving them be for just that one day.
All I had really wanted was to add to my National Public Radio souvenir collection. Actually, the only piece I have now is a signed copy of the 1994 NPR Interviews by Robert Siegel (host of All Things Considered). And the reason I have it is because it contains interviews with friends of mine from my home town of Chillicothe, Ohio. The topic of those interviews...ironically...an issue dealing with the Bill Clinton presidency!! Blast you Hillary, blast you NPR!!
In short, my night and morning ended in disappointment. Although it had nothing to do with the outcome of the primary, it came during an election. An election that, once again, found a way to put me in my place.
The only saving grace is that the general election isn't until November. A nice, long eight months away.
In the meantime I'll be looking for a new place to hide. Unfortunately, I don't know whether if I'm hiding from the election day demons or listener supported radio?
There are reasons politics and I don't mix, some of them are hard to explain. Others are pretty obvious.
Below is one my more personal issues with the political devil. This is story was originally written and posted on http://www.akronnewsnow.com/ back on March 6th. I figured with it being a month later I could repeat it with having severe flashbacks.
Keep your fingers crossed and enjoy, ;)
Election Night Demons Strike Again
3/6/2008 6:08:52 AM By: Craig Simpson
Voters and politicians are either happy or disappointed with Tuesday's outcome, but for some of us it was a reason to run and hide.
You either enjoy election day or despise it as a member of the media. As for myself I'm in between, but I'm seriously leaning toward the latter. At WAKR and AkronNewsNow.com we manned several locations Tuesday with the Democratic watching party being my post.
With the focus on Akron and Northeast Ohio the last few months you could expect to run into some media brethren of local, regional and national levels at every location. At the Democratic party, taking place at Bricco (great pizza) in downtown, I passed reporters from WKYC TV, WKSU Public Radio and National Public Radio (NPR).
Bricco: http://www.briccoakron.com/
Being a former NPR anchor/reporter myself at affiliates in Indiana and Kentucky, I thought it was pretty cool to run into a personality you would hear everyday if you are an avid listener. As it was, Linda Wertheimer was covering the same beat Tuesday.
Linda Wertheimer: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1931801
Upon my arrival at Bricco the manager passed on some information I thought was halfway amusing. Apparently, Wertheimer and her assistant were having trouble getting a satellite signal back to Washington in order conduct some live reporting or something of that nature. It isn't good to poke fun at someone's misfortune, but I have had this very same problem happen to me more than once. Finally, someone else was snake bitten.
National Public Radio: www.npr.org
As a result Wertheimer was unable to do anything live at that point and just had to gather bulk interviews for production of stories later on. I had to giggle that this worldwide news organization could not get a signal due to Northeast Ohio's brutal winter weather (among other things).
Being a fan of NPR and not wanting to miss the opportunity I found my way over to Mrs. Wertheimer and conducted an interview with her on how the national media is focusing its attention on Akron. She was as courteous and gracious as her personality over the airwaves seems to indicate. It was also hard to hide my enthusiasm for interviewing a colleague of that magnitude in our industry.
Later on, back at the studios of Rubber City Radio Group in the early morning hours Wednesday I'm in the process of producing stories and cutting up audio for Larry States & the rest of our morning crew. That's when my election night demons couldn't hold their laughter.
Our digital recorders, sometimes, have this unexplainable glitch in which (at various times) will record over a track instead of jumping to a new track once the record button is engaged. As a result the one interview I could brag about to my media friends, my fellow NPR geeks and jealous family members...had been recorded over. It disappeared into the same thin air that kept the all powerful National Public Radio from conducting live election night coverage from downtown Akron.
Wertheimer, unknown to her, had the last laugh. I could hear NPR slyly telling me, "You had it coming commercial radio reporter man!" Was it pay back for leaving? Did I not realize what the consequences were for leaving the ranks of publicly funded, listener supported radio?
I could just see loyal public radio-ists enjoying the drinking from their NPR supporting listener gift coffee mug more than they ever had before. Their children proudly wearing their Morning Edition t-shirts to school the next day like they were made of gold and their would-be bully antagonizers taking notice, leaving them be for just that one day.
All I had really wanted was to add to my National Public Radio souvenir collection. Actually, the only piece I have now is a signed copy of the 1994 NPR Interviews by Robert Siegel (host of All Things Considered). And the reason I have it is because it contains interviews with friends of mine from my home town of Chillicothe, Ohio. The topic of those interviews...ironically...an issue dealing with the Bill Clinton presidency!! Blast you Hillary, blast you NPR!!
In short, my night and morning ended in disappointment. Although it had nothing to do with the outcome of the primary, it came during an election. An election that, once again, found a way to put me in my place.
The only saving grace is that the general election isn't until November. A nice, long eight months away.
In the meantime I'll be looking for a new place to hide. Unfortunately, I don't know whether if I'm hiding from the election day demons or listener supported radio?
A former broadcasting guy now working to be happy and maybe successful as well. Find me on Instagram and twitter as: crsimp01.
Chase me on @Strava
@HoneyStinger Athlete
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
There's No Crying In Baseball
I was never a big fan of the Cleveland Indians - maybe I should have been.
Working in the media, partly in sports, sometimes there are benefits that make you happy with the career path you've chosen. Interviewing for a news/sports radio reporter position in Canton, Ohio, I could not have been more excited. Not only did it include reporting on some the best high school football and basketball around, it also consisted of covering the Pro Football Hall Of Fame induction ceremony.
www.whbc.com
Thinking I had won a small victory by getting the job I couldn't wait to see what was in store. Though I grew up, and continue to be, a Cincinnati Reds fan - this station was a Cleveland Indians affiliate. I had always kept track of the Tribe, but when it came down to it I was a Reds fan.
http://www.profootballhof.com/
A couple of months after being hired, the Indians' front office held affiliate day at Jacobs Field (It will never be Progressive in my heart). This meant various media outlets would send a handful of employees to spend the day as a member of the Tribe. This included on field practice, batting, getting your own locker - basically - like you were a Cleveland Indian.
Chosen by my boss to take part, I did all I could to gloat to all my die hard Tribe fan friends. I'm a huge baseball fan, so I would have been excited no matter what team it was - but being an Ohio team made it that much better. I was joined by two others I worked with on this Summer 2004 weekday afternoon. Not only did I get to play baseball, but I was getting a day off from work to do it. Bright and sunny, it was perfect baseball weather.
Once we arrived at Jacobs Field we pull up to what would be the players parking lot complete with a guard shack and security officers. It was very cool to have them ask who we were and find our names on their list of VIPs. We were allowed to park and enter "The Jake" through the players entrance and on into the players locker room.
There each of us had a locker, with our name on it, complete with a uniform, snacks and various items every player must have - wrist bands, shades and that gunk they put under their eyes to keep the sun from blinding them on the field. This was like those fantasy camps you read about, but this was free of charge and on company time!
Getting dressed into my Tribe practice gear I notice my baseball pants have a broken zipper. No biggie - there's several more in the corner of the room. As one of our "coaches" and I rifle through them it turns out there aren't any more in my size. Now I'm a tall, skinny guy which means anything the slightest off from my what I typically wear and I'm going to look ridiculous. A size larger: I might as well be wearing a bed sheet. A size smaller: I will be peeling them off like a banana.
With no other choice I had to go with the latter and with everyone else ready to roll - I was wasting their valuable time. Sliding those pants on made me sick to my stomach. My amateur baseball colleagues snickered and pretended not to notice. As we jog to the playing field I could actually hear my pants screaming for mercy as they stretch beyond belief. It helped to know I only knew the guys I came with that way I would only be the butt of jokes at work and not at radio stations throughout Ohio.
Attempting to focus, I immerse myself into the fact that I'm playing baseball on Jacobs Field - how cool is that! I warm up by playing catch with my co-worker Brady. We were to follow Tribe practice rules which included having to tuck our shirts in. WONDERFUL - not only do I feel ridiculous and uncomfortable - I'm dressed as if I should be at the nearest street corner asking passersby if they are looking for a "good time".
Those guys who were snickering before are now embarrassed for me - no one looks in my direction or will even make eye contact. Brady has sunglasses on - I think this was his way to pretend he wasn't looking directly at me. His shades served a duel purpose: protection from the sun and a way to avoid being noticed by people he knew.
My other co-worker, Shawn, had pants that were as form fitting as mine but with one exception. Shawn played defensive line for the University of Michigan. He could fill them out because he had those things I didn't: you know...muscle tone and athleticism. Not only did he look like he could play baseball, he had the right to wear those pants and be complimented for it. For me - it was just obscene.
Fly ball practice should have been called "watch peter pan chase tinker bell". Wanting to concentrate on where I was and what I was doing - I went all out. Our coaches hit it short...I caught it, they hit it long...I caught it. To have fun with me, they hit it really short and once I caught up to it they immediately hit it really long. Those bastards just wanted to see me run like hell. I think they had a bet on whether the stitching in my pants would hold up.
I missed it, barely. Another foot and I would have been there. Damn, I so wanted to put them in their place. My turn was over and jogging back to our group - I'm still being ignored. Though many of them had the look as if they were sick to their stomach from watching me run around. Next was bullpen practice, which wasn't too bad. No one standing behind you and you didn't have to move much. That was good...because I couldn't. This girdle wrapped around my legs had cut off all circulation. From this point the afternoon was all about will power.
During batting practice, those not hitting picked a spot in the field to shag flies and grounders off the bats of whomever among us was at the plate. Again, this was good because I didn't have to move much, especially at my station in deep left field. Most of us were righties and couldn't get the bat around fast enough to knock the ball in my direction.
Then my name was called to come in and bat. I sauntered toward home plate trying to tell myself to have fun and not worry about the fact you might as well be naked from the waist down.
The Indians took my humiliation a bit further. To give everyone that "ballpark experience" as you stepped into the batters box, they flashed your picture on the big screen and the stadium announcer bellowed out your name & affiliate station to the imaginary crowd. When I stepped in I could swear I heard, "Look at pansy boy in his pretty clam diggers! Hey, is that a birthmark?"
My baseball dream was a complete disaster. I could barely move or even get into a batter's crouch for fear my pants splitting at home plate in Jacobs field; and its all being broadcast on the stadium JumboTron. I'm not the world's greatest hitter, but I thought I would at least be able to make contact a few times. Though being a little more than preoccupied I couldn't enjoy the moment. I was even given a few extra "sympathy" pitches, but to no avail. Out of the 30 or so throws I think I fouled off, maybe, seven or eight. The rest of the time I gingerly swung as best I could with my feet basically set in cement. My moment in the limelight turned out to be baseball's sick joke on me.
Back in the clubhouse the coaches discussed the afternoon as everyone excitedly talked about their time as members of the Cleveland Indians. For me, all I could think about was what kind of utensil will I need to get these pants off and how long will it take.
Once the coaches gave their final word, I get to take the pants off. You can vaguely hear what resembles the tearing of velcro, almost suction-like, as they come down. The pores on my legs open wide in an effort to hord the oxygen they have been deprived of. I toss the virtual straight jacket in the pile of dirty uniforms and laugh as I imagine the poor schmuck who would have to wear them next, but out of the corner of my eye I notice one of the managers casually kick them toward the trash can. He knew what they were and where they had been, they screamed contamination (Although, if I would have had my way, I would've set fire to them).
We're reminded that, available for purchase, are pictures of you batting with your face on the stadium big screen in the background. Needless to say I declined. The last thing I wanted was documentation of my baseball experience wearing what could be mistaken for Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman suit in Batman Returns.
I'm still as big a baseball fan as ever, although I give the Tribe a little more credit than I used too. That only makes sense now that they have fared much better than my Reds over the last few years.
To this day I gloat to my Tribe fan friends about what I had the opportunity to do, I just don't give them the whole story and maybe embellish my experience a bit. Who wouldn't?
Though now with each baseball season I keep a pair of flames burning. One for my Cincinnati Reds & one as a reminder that everyone gets what they deserve.
Working in the media, partly in sports, sometimes there are benefits that make you happy with the career path you've chosen. Interviewing for a news/sports radio reporter position in Canton, Ohio, I could not have been more excited. Not only did it include reporting on some the best high school football and basketball around, it also consisted of covering the Pro Football Hall Of Fame induction ceremony.
www.whbc.com
Thinking I had won a small victory by getting the job I couldn't wait to see what was in store. Though I grew up, and continue to be, a Cincinnati Reds fan - this station was a Cleveland Indians affiliate. I had always kept track of the Tribe, but when it came down to it I was a Reds fan.
http://www.profootballhof.com/
A couple of months after being hired, the Indians' front office held affiliate day at Jacobs Field (It will never be Progressive in my heart). This meant various media outlets would send a handful of employees to spend the day as a member of the Tribe. This included on field practice, batting, getting your own locker - basically - like you were a Cleveland Indian.
Once we arrived at Jacobs Field we pull up to what would be the players parking lot complete with a guard shack and security officers. It was very cool to have them ask who we were and find our names on their list of VIPs. We were allowed to park and enter "The Jake" through the players entrance and on into the players locker room.
There each of us had a locker, with our name on it, complete with a uniform, snacks and various items every player must have - wrist bands, shades and that gunk they put under their eyes to keep the sun from blinding them on the field. This was like those fantasy camps you read about, but this was free of charge and on company time!
Getting dressed into my Tribe practice gear I notice my baseball pants have a broken zipper. No biggie - there's several more in the corner of the room. As one of our "coaches" and I rifle through them it turns out there aren't any more in my size. Now I'm a tall, skinny guy which means anything the slightest off from my what I typically wear and I'm going to look ridiculous. A size larger: I might as well be wearing a bed sheet. A size smaller: I will be peeling them off like a banana.
With no other choice I had to go with the latter and with everyone else ready to roll - I was wasting their valuable time. Sliding those pants on made me sick to my stomach. My amateur baseball colleagues snickered and pretended not to notice. As we jog to the playing field I could actually hear my pants screaming for mercy as they stretch beyond belief. It helped to know I only knew the guys I came with that way I would only be the butt of jokes at work and not at radio stations throughout Ohio.
Attempting to focus, I immerse myself into the fact that I'm playing baseball on Jacobs Field - how cool is that! I warm up by playing catch with my co-worker Brady. We were to follow Tribe practice rules which included having to tuck our shirts in. WONDERFUL - not only do I feel ridiculous and uncomfortable - I'm dressed as if I should be at the nearest street corner asking passersby if they are looking for a "good time".
Those guys who were snickering before are now embarrassed for me - no one looks in my direction or will even make eye contact. Brady has sunglasses on - I think this was his way to pretend he wasn't looking directly at me. His shades served a duel purpose: protection from the sun and a way to avoid being noticed by people he knew.
My other co-worker, Shawn, had pants that were as form fitting as mine but with one exception. Shawn played defensive line for the University of Michigan. He could fill them out because he had those things I didn't: you know...muscle tone and athleticism. Not only did he look like he could play baseball, he had the right to wear those pants and be complimented for it. For me - it was just obscene.
Fly ball practice should have been called "watch peter pan chase tinker bell". Wanting to concentrate on where I was and what I was doing - I went all out. Our coaches hit it short...I caught it, they hit it long...I caught it. To have fun with me, they hit it really short and once I caught up to it they immediately hit it really long. Those bastards just wanted to see me run like hell. I think they had a bet on whether the stitching in my pants would hold up.
I missed it, barely. Another foot and I would have been there. Damn, I so wanted to put them in their place. My turn was over and jogging back to our group - I'm still being ignored. Though many of them had the look as if they were sick to their stomach from watching me run around. Next was bullpen practice, which wasn't too bad. No one standing behind you and you didn't have to move much. That was good...because I couldn't. This girdle wrapped around my legs had cut off all circulation. From this point the afternoon was all about will power.
During batting practice, those not hitting picked a spot in the field to shag flies and grounders off the bats of whomever among us was at the plate. Again, this was good because I didn't have to move much, especially at my station in deep left field. Most of us were righties and couldn't get the bat around fast enough to knock the ball in my direction.
Then my name was called to come in and bat. I sauntered toward home plate trying to tell myself to have fun and not worry about the fact you might as well be naked from the waist down.
The Indians took my humiliation a bit further. To give everyone that "ballpark experience" as you stepped into the batters box, they flashed your picture on the big screen and the stadium announcer bellowed out your name & affiliate station to the imaginary crowd. When I stepped in I could swear I heard, "Look at pansy boy in his pretty clam diggers! Hey, is that a birthmark?"
My baseball dream was a complete disaster. I could barely move or even get into a batter's crouch for fear my pants splitting at home plate in Jacobs field; and its all being broadcast on the stadium JumboTron. I'm not the world's greatest hitter, but I thought I would at least be able to make contact a few times. Though being a little more than preoccupied I couldn't enjoy the moment. I was even given a few extra "sympathy" pitches, but to no avail. Out of the 30 or so throws I think I fouled off, maybe, seven or eight. The rest of the time I gingerly swung as best I could with my feet basically set in cement. My moment in the limelight turned out to be baseball's sick joke on me.
Back in the clubhouse the coaches discussed the afternoon as everyone excitedly talked about their time as members of the Cleveland Indians. For me, all I could think about was what kind of utensil will I need to get these pants off and how long will it take.
Once the coaches gave their final word, I get to take the pants off. You can vaguely hear what resembles the tearing of velcro, almost suction-like, as they come down. The pores on my legs open wide in an effort to hord the oxygen they have been deprived of. I toss the virtual straight jacket in the pile of dirty uniforms and laugh as I imagine the poor schmuck who would have to wear them next, but out of the corner of my eye I notice one of the managers casually kick them toward the trash can. He knew what they were and where they had been, they screamed contamination (Although, if I would have had my way, I would've set fire to them).
We're reminded that, available for purchase, are pictures of you batting with your face on the stadium big screen in the background. Needless to say I declined. The last thing I wanted was documentation of my baseball experience wearing what could be mistaken for Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman suit in Batman Returns.
I'm still as big a baseball fan as ever, although I give the Tribe a little more credit than I used too. That only makes sense now that they have fared much better than my Reds over the last few years.
To this day I gloat to my Tribe fan friends about what I had the opportunity to do, I just don't give them the whole story and maybe embellish my experience a bit. Who wouldn't?
Though now with each baseball season I keep a pair of flames burning. One for my Cincinnati Reds & one as a reminder that everyone gets what they deserve.
A former broadcasting guy now working to be happy and maybe successful as well. Find me on Instagram and twitter as: crsimp01.
Chase me on @Strava
@HoneyStinger Athlete
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